


Darkness Surrounds Us

by RoaringMice



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21734935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoaringMice/pseuds/RoaringMice
Summary: He'd never really thought of a life without flying.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

_Thanks:To Reedfem, who proofed most of the weapons information_

x-x

John pressed the release button, removing the magazine and carefully placing it on the cloth in front of him. Shifting slightly to make himself more comfortable on the bed, he pulled back the slide. The chamber was empty. He pushed the catch lever up and locked the slide open.

The night's darkness lay all around him, but he worked with the assurance of movement long rehearsed. He didn't need to see - he could do this in his sleep.

He twisted the disassembly latch down until it stopped and removed it from the frame, laying it on the cloth. Carefully, taking his time with it, he released the slide latch and pulled it forward off the frame. It, too, he placed on the cloth. He took out the spring, and then the barrel.

He let his fingers trace the pattern of the objects on the fabric in front of him. Using the cloth like the face of a clock, he'd meticulously placed each piece of the pistol at a different point. When his fingers touched the barrel, he used his other hand to pull the wire brush from its home in the cleaning kit he'd settled between crossed legs.

He could hear a splattering of rain as it hit the glass of the windows behind him. Startled, he looked up. Even at night, even in the rain, the lights of the city reflected off the water surrounding it. His room was cast in a soft, grey light, although the objects on his bed remained hidden in shadow.

Dipping his head again, John pushed the brush through the barrel, unscrewing it from the cleaning rod and pulling the rod out without the brush attached. Repeating this procedure twice, he pushed the cleaning rod through the barrel again.

He'd been cleaning guns since - God, since his dad had taught him to shoot. Probably about age twelve. And this particular pistol - this one he knew intimately, even better than his P90. He was glad he still had it with him, that they'd let him keep it. Of course, the fact that he hadn't actually told them he still had it certainly helped.

Feeling inside the bag in his lap, he removed a square cloth and his small bottle of solvent. Attaching the cloth to the end of the cleaning rod, he dipped the patch in solvent and pulled it through the barrel, moving it in the same direction a bullet would travel. As the sharp scent of solvent filled his nose, he repeated the process, each time with a fresh patch. Satsified, he wiped the outside of the barrel, also cleaning the slide and the handle.

Hands moving automatically, his thoughts drifted back to the days just after the accident. It was probably more than a month ago, now. He shook his head slightly. Those early days were lost in a fog of pain and medication.

John put the barrel and spring back together, placing drops of lubricant where they needed to go. Replacing the slide, he pulled it back and locked it open with the catch lever. Then, with significant force, he pushed the slide disassembly latch back in.

Each day since then had been an effort. At first, he'd found himself snapping at everyone and everything. It was like he'd been unable to stop himself, his own frustration and anger flying forth with every word and gesture. He knew people were just trying to help, but... God, if one more person came to him with that mix of pity and...

Shaking his head violently this time, he drove those thoughts away as he loaded the rounds. As another bullet slipped into place with its soft click, he heard the door to his room open, and then a voice.

"Major, I..."

Rodney cut himself off, and John heard him draw a sharp breath. Two footsteps, then the swish of the door closing.

"Ever heard of knocking, McKay?" John said, trying to cover his tension with sarcasm.

"Major?" Rodney said again, his voice showing his hesitation. Then carefully, as one might speak to a frightened child, he asked, "What are you doing?"

In a rush, John saw the scene from Rodney's perspective. John kept his face turned away, knowing that the dim light would hide the details of his expression. McKay was probably suspecting the worst. He should tell Rodney the truth, what he wanted to hear - that what he thought John was doing wasn't in fact what he was doing at all. That all the time he'd been spending alone lately; he just needed some time to himself. That he'd been struck with the need to do something - anything - useful, and this seemed as good a thing as any. That he wasn't planning to shoot himself. Or anyone else, for that matter. John almost smiled, but not quite.

Rodney took a measured step towards him. "Listen, Major. John. If there's -

Now John did turn towards him. "I'm just cleaning my pistol, McKay."

"Oh. Right," Rodney replied, not sounding at all convinced.

John left Rodney standing there, and he continued to load the rest of the rounds. He bet McKay rushed back to Elizabeth and told her all about finding their injured, isolated C.O. alone in the dark with a loaded gun. He almost smiled at the absurdity of it all.

He knew what McKay was thinking, but he decided to leave it. Let them hash it out. He didn't have the energy. If Elizabeth came to him about the gun, he'd turn on the charm, tell her he really wasn't thinking of... His hand hesitated for a brief second.

His life sucked royally right now, but he wasn't at that point. Not quite.

He loaded the final bullet and placed the weapon in its safe. Shifting on the bed, he reached out for the dresser. Feeling along its top edge, he let his fingers trail down until they touched the drawer pull. He tugged it open and put the gun inside, careful to push the drawer shut again so he wouldn't bump into it later.

He'd learned to do things like that. If any good came from all this, he was much neater now, he thought cynically.

He turned to Rodney with a smile he knew hung false. "So, what can I do for you?"

He heard Rodney shift, could see his form move in the darkness. John knew he wasn't making this easy. He found he didn't particularly care.

"Dinner?" Rodney finally asked. "Teyla..." His voice trailed off and stopped.

"Nah," John said, cutting into the silence.

He could almost hear Rodney's frown. "You have to eat."

"I don't 'have to' much of anything anymore," John replied, a bit more sharply than he'd intended.

As silence fell again, he took pity on the man. He knew Rodney was only trying to help. "Sorry," he said, almost meaning it. "It's just that..." He stood from the bed and lifted his hands, shrugging slightly. "...I can't stand..." He let his voice trail off again, unable to put voice to his thoughts. People staring at him with sadness in their eyes, or worse.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and he knew Rodney got it.

"How 'bout I bring something back?"

"Thanks."

The room flooded with light as Rodney left, plunging back into shadow as the door closed behind him.

After a moment, John took a careful step forward, one hand out slightly as he made his way toward the bathroom. In the darkness of the small space, he faced the mirror. Bracing himself, he turned the lights on, then back off angrily.

It didn't matter. The lights only made the haze brighter. He was still blind.

x-x


	2. Chapter 2

x-x

_John was scrambling through the woods. Trees sped past him as his feet flew over uneven ground. He tripped on some scrub but kept going, darting from side to side and keeping his path uneven so he'd be less of a target. Feet pounding, heart racing, he was surrounded by the sounds of projectiles hitting trees, ripping away bark. He flinched at each hit._

_He had no idea why talks had broken down so suddenly. Things seemed to be going fairly smoothly - the usual "I'll trade you this, if you trade us that" stuff. But broke down they did, quickly and violently. His team had managed to get away, only to be separated as they'd fled through these woods._

_He'd been taking up the rear, and was now trying his damnedest to get back to the gate. Rodney was already through - he knew this from a hushed radio conversation with Teyla, held as he'd hidden behind a ridge. Teyla was now at the gate, waiting for them. Ford was somewhere in front of him. He could see occasional flashes of him through trees and shadow._

_The projectile fire was getting closer. These guys were fast, and obviously well trained._

_Shells were falling all around. They hit trees and earth, sending dirt flying violently up. One projectile whizzed nearby. It struck the earth somewhere behind him._

_And that was when he smelled it, and he knew he was well and truly fucked. An odd, sharp odor, almost mustardy, just at the back of his awareness. He barely had time to process what it was before he felt himself lifted and he was flying through the air, the sky bright blue above him, trees coming at him in a blur. His last thought was "Shit" before he hit._

John woke with a start. Heart pounding, sheets twisted around his legs, he fell back onto his sweat-soaked pillow with a softly muttered swear.

In sleep, he could remember. His hand flew to his forehead, as if that would somehow help trap the memories there.

The dream was always the same, and always stopped just at the same point. He could recall his frantic run, and the near-panic he'd felt when he realised... When he... He remembered... No.

John let his arm fall onto his chest, almost growling his frustration. It was like he could feel the memories as they slipped away. Something about... there was a smell, or... It was like it was just out of reach. He simply remembered the feeling of flying, the sky bright above him.

He squinted but his vision didn't sharpen. He closed his eyes instead. Fumbling for the clock at the bedside, he placed fingers on its exposed dial, reading the time through touch. Nineteen hundred hours. Seven p.m. He must have dozed off. He rolled onto his side and pulled the sheet up over his shoulders. Shutting his eyes again, he tried to will himself back to sleep.

Ford must have seen or heard something. Maybe he'd called out when he'd been hit, or the explosion itself had caught Ford's attention, because someone had gotten him through the gate. He didn't remember.

He did recall some things from his time in the infirmary; mostly snatches and flashes of conversation. "Residual vision limited to..." that was Carson's voice. And another voice, from far off, "Severe visual impairment..." he assumed due to a head injury or some sort of damage to his eyes, or the optic nerve. He knew Carson had explained it all, several times in fact, but it was lost in a haze of memory and pain. He really should ask again. But he'd already spent enough time in the infirmary, and he didn't want to go back there unless he had to. Carson would probably think he was nuts, anyway, asking the same stupid question forty-seven times.

Maybe this lack of memory, being unable to recall what Carson had said, was a symptom of the head injury as well? John's smile flickered. Maybe Carson had told him that, too.

He knew - this he remembered - he was left with what sight he had. Carson had explained that there was little chance of improvement. John's smile twisted bitterly. He supposed that he should be grateful. He could get around somewhat, so long as there was enough distinction between dark and light. Still, when there wasn't enough contrast, he might as well close his eyes for all the good they did him.

Rodney, though - he'd recognise him even half blind. The man had a distinctive way of walking. And Teyla of course, small and lithe. And Ford, his movements still showing some of the awkwardness of youth. Each one, he could tell it was them even from far away, simply through their style of movement.

His team. He'd been a complete and total asshole to them. Purposefully. A complete and total ass. Still, he wasn't surprised that Ford and Teyla had continued to stop by, no matter how awkward and uncomfortable he managed to make those visits, especially at first. But Rodney - guess he expected, if he was enough of a jerk, Rodney at least would leave him alone. In the end it just seemed to make the man more determined. And Rodney's approach was surprisingly subtle - he'd stop by, say "Hi", give him updates on their latest missions - brief visits, seemingly casual. Only there to talk about surface stuff. None of that stupid "feelings" crap Elizabeth had tried to pull...

God, he could still hear the sadness and pity in Elizabeth's tone. He'd practically chased her from the room. He winced. That hadn't gone well. Not his proudest moment.

His door chime went, and John sat up. "Yeah?"

"It's me. Rodney."

John almost smiled at that. "Oh. Ringing the doorbell now, are we?" Silence. He didn't really expect an answer to that one. He could imagine the look on Rodney's face - caught somewhere between pissy and annoyed.

John turned the lights on low, more for Rodney's comfort than any benefit he'd get in terms of his sight. He triggered the door.

"You sleeping?" Rodney asked, his voice showing his surprise at seeing John in bed.

John realised he could simply say "Yes" and end this conversation here and now, but the scent of the food Rodney had brought was far too tempting. Instead he said, "Not really."

"Cause I can leave this and come back..."

He waved Rodney in, pulling the sheets so that they pooled around his lap. He leaned back against the wall. "Thanks for the food," he said as the door shut behind his visitor.

He heard a chair scrape across the floor, and then rustling as Rodney settled in it. There was a distinctive "clink" as Rodney placed a plate on the table beside his bed, then the soft tinkle of cutlery as he placed that beside it.

"Meatloaf, mashed, no gravy," Rodney said. "And water," as he placed a glass on the table's surface. "Brought my own as well." Then, around what obviously was a mouthful of food, he managed, "Hope you don't mind."

They spent the next several minutes eating, John holding his food close enough to his face that any "oops" moments would be caught by the plate, rather than his lap. He was actually almost enjoying the meatloaf - there might even be actual 'meat' in there - when his thoughts were interrupted by Rodney's sudden comment.

"Good to see you eating."

John looked up from his plate, his eyebrow raised in a question.

"So much, I mean," Rodney added awkwardly. "Since the gas you..."

Right! John thought, the memories coming back to him in a wave as Rodney rambled on. Gas. He'd been gassed. That's what had blinded him - some weird chemical. Most of the effects had gone away with treatment and time - the breathing problems, the skin lesions. And the memory problems - he almost laughed. Despite all evidence, from those he was fast recovering. But the blindness? That he got to keep. Souvenir of war.

"Hmm..." Rodney said around a bite.

Oh, here it comes, John thought, bracing himself. He placed the plate on the table and crossed his arms across his chest.

"I want to make sure you're -

John cut him off. "Listen, I wasn't -

Rodney slid his own plate onto the bedside table in a clatter of cutlery. "Fine. That's fine. I'm glad."

Rodney did in no way actually sound glad. John could see the movement of his hands in the air, sculpting his thoughts as he spoke.

"But I want to - I need to make sure. That you won't. Um." Rodney hesitated, letting out a harsh breath. In a more resolute voice, he added, "I need you to promise that you won't."

John slid careful fingers across the nightstand's surface, feeling for the glass of water as he tried to buy himself some time. Rodney as counsellor was something he really hadn't been expecting. Grasping the glass and taking a quick sip, he fumbled for a response. "Did you tell anyone?" he finally asked, knowing that his evasion of Rodney's request was probably pretty obvious.

"Nah. No."

That surprised John. He'd thought that Rodney would tell Elizabeth about the pistol, about finding him here. Or Carson at least. Or go running to Heightmeyer. Maybe he had to rethink the man.

John reached out a hand toward Rodney. "I wasn't..." he started before trailing off into thought. Honestly. I swear to God. I wasn't.

Rodney spoke into the silence. "And you won't - ", he said, more of a statement then a question.

"I won't."

"Promise?"

John held fingers up in a mock Boy Scout salute. "I swear."

"Not joking, here," Rodney said, his words sharp.

John let his hand fall to his lap. Rodney wanted serious? He could give him serious. "I promise," he said sombrely.

"And if you do..."

"I won't," John interrupted, his voice taking on some of Rodney's edge.

"If. You. Do," Rodney said, punctuating each word with an arm movement. "If you start to think..." At a loss for words, he waved his hands. "...whatever. Even an inkling, I want you to come to me first."

"To you?" John asked, unable to keep his voice from showing his shock. He fully expected Rodney to flee from such a thing, not to actually set himself up for it. The man was full of surprises lately.

"Yes. To me," Rodney said firmly. "I know you'd never to go Heightmeyer, or Elizabeth, or...hell, probably not to anyone."

John sat in quiet acknowledgement.

"So, yes. To me. Promise."

"Fine," John sighed. "Promise."

They sat in silence for a moment before John looked away. "You know they'll send me back. Once we re-establish transit back to Earth, you know they'll..." He wrapped his fist in his sheet.

He had no idea of what he'd do once he was home. He'd always been military and sure, there had been times in his career when he'd thought about life beyond that. But he'd never really thought of a life without flying.

"Your vision could get better. They may be able to figure something out."

"Maybe," John said, not sounding convinced even to his own ears. When Rodney didn't respond, he went on. "What the hell can I do if I'm blind?

"You could teach."

"Nah," John replied. "You can teach," he laughed, placing the emphasis on the first word. "Me, not so much. And I don't have a grad degree."

"You could get one -

"Let's just drop it, okay?" he said, hands flying up, his words coming out harsher than he'd intended. In the resulting silence, he said, almost plaintive, "For now, anyway, all right?"

"Okay," Rodney answered softly. He reached forward and cuffed John on the knee. For now he left the rest unsaid, the words hanging between them.

John knew he'd only postponed the inevitable. Rodney never let stuff drop. The man was tenacious.


	3. Chapter 3

x-x

John shifted in his chair, putting down the laptop he'd rigged with its newly enlarged typeface. He'd been trying to read War and Peace, but if he thought reading it in book-form was slow going, trying to read it character-by-character on a computer screen was almost deadly.

He spun his chair away from his desk. Rising, he stepped to the windows, allowing the soft light to bathe him. He supposed it could be worse. He could be entirely blind, unable even to see this... He held his hand up, pressing his palm, flat, against the window, its shadow blocking out part of the radiance. At least he could see light. Small mercies.

Speaking of small mercies, Rodney hadn't brought their conversation up again. Still, he could tell Rodney was keeping a careful eye on him. Rodney would do things like drop in at odd hours, talking about random stuff: the latest device he was working on, people who'd pissed him off lately, new foodstuffs they'd traded for; each time spending only a few minutes before leaving as quickly as he'd come.

And John would sit patiently and listen. He figured it was the least he could do, especially in exchange for Rodney not blabbing about the pistol. He also knew that Rodney now felt somewhat responsible for his well being. So he could handle Rodney's checking in, making sure he was not sitting there in the dark with a gun in his mouth. And in reality, he supposed he didn't mind the visits. He had fuck all else to do, and Rodney always ended up doing most of the talking, seeming to expect little if any response from him.

But his mind kept going back to their conversation. As soon as transit was re-established, he'd be shipped back to Earth.

Earth. John clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms. What would he do there? He had no idea. Not one. He'd never really thought beyond the military, but when he had, he'd still imagined himself a pilot. Now...

He froze where he was standing, holding himself still. He thought he'd heard... He cocked his head, frowning as he tried to make it out. He wished the old wives tale of "blind people with super hearing" was true, but so far anyway, no luck.

There it was. The alarm. Flaring for a moment, then gone.

Heart pounding, he went to his bedside table. He grabbed his gun and his radio and moved to the door, slipping his earpiece into place. Tapping it twice, he waited, listening carefully.

"Major?"

That was Ford's voice.

Raising his arm, John triggered his mouthpiece. "Yeah?"

"We've got company in the gateroom."

"Fabulous," John muttered, closing the channel.

x-x

Carefully trailing a hand along the wall, John counted his steps. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. The doorway should be...there, he thought, his fingers rounding a sharp edge. This should be McKay's lab.

Footsteps from around the corner drove him through the door. The cacophony of voices he walked into confirmed that this was, indeed, McKay's lab. Rodney was there, and Miko, and... maybe that German woman whose name he constantly forgot. But three people and him.

"Hey," he said, his soft voice ringing out in the sudden silence. The door closed behind him and he thought a quick "Lock, lock, lock," at it, hoping it would keep whoever it was, out.

McKay's voice came from nearby. "Major, what...?"

There was a sound at the door, a soft rustling followed by a loud thump. They must have seen him enter.

With a sharp hand, he waved Rodney and his gang back, hoping they'd know to get behind him. He turned toward the door, palming his pistol. They'd be exposed if the intruders got into the room. There was no place to hide. Maybe that was something to consider for the future - bolt holes, in case of attack or invasion.

The door began to open in a slow screech of metal.

John took a step back, toward McKay, hoping to keep himself between the scientists and the intruders. The door finally pushed fully open and John could hear movement, the sounds of several bodies, and footsteps. The dimness of the corridor made it so John couldn't quite make out the forms. He could tell there was more than one person just from the sound of them, and the largeness of their indistinct blur.

The shape in the doorway shifted and split into four intruders. One stepped toward him, crossing in front of a desk lamp. John confirmed the person was carrying something; the silhouette indicated that it was likely some sort of weapon, and big. Two other people hung by the door, while the third stepped to the left.

The form in front of him spoke. "Drop your weapon." His voice was hard. Raspy, like the man had a two-pack-a-day habit.

"I'd really rather not," John cracked.

He heard the sound of weapons being cocked - projectile weapons, from the sound of them - and lowered his gun to the floor. Standing again, his eyes trained on the person who'd spoken, he asked, "What do you want?"

"Your medical facilities; where are they?" the man asked, his voice seemingly calm.

"Our infirmary?" McKay shot out from behind him. "You're here for our drugs?" He sounded incredulous.

"We are here for several things," the man replied, his tone taking on an edge. He hefted his weapon and stepped to the side, obviously trying to get around John. John took a quick step into his path. The man moved from the halo of the desk lamp and John's eyes lost track of him. He felt the man push past him, forcing the butt of his weapon into John's ribs and pushing him aside. John stumbled and spun. He stood back up and, tracing the man's footsteps, again stepped into his path. "Leave them," he spat, anger tight in his throat.

"Major," McKay said, his voice taught with stress. "Don't."

The man in front of him said nothing for a moment. Then he laughed sharply. "You are blind?" He asked, sounding surprised.

John stood silent. He tensed, ready for anything.

The man stepped closer. John could actually feel the heat from his body, his breath on his face as he spoke.

"A blind protector," the man said. "That is different."

"At least he's -"

John heard a noise and McKay was cut off in mid-phrase. Miko gasped, and there was a thump as someone - McKay - hit the floor.

John stepped forward. Hands grabbed him.

"Enough," the man said. "Let's move on."

x-x

John was being pushed through the corridor, a gun at his back. Miko was beside him and the German woman, Helga he thought it was, was somewhere behind. When they stepped into the brightness and space of the gateroom, his eyes automatically turned towards where he could hear the gate cycling.

They were pushed up onto the platform in front of the gate. There was a confusion of voices around him - the Canadian gate tech, plus several voices he didn't recognise. One, two, three other men here, but no one else from Atlantis.

The man who'd spoken before, their leader, said, "We got what we need?" Someone must have responded affirmatively, because he barked, "Let that one go."

John was shoved away. Staggering, he fell to the floor.

"Bring these two with us."

The gate activated in a whoosh, then there was a flurry of activity around him. Ford's roar, Teyla's sharp exhalations, maybe - no, definitely Lorne, and he's up in a flash, heading toward Miko's shouts. He could hear the thrum of the gate just above him as he pulled the man holding her. He felt Miko spin away.

A body slammed into him. Before he realised what was happening, he fell through the iris and landed, hard, his head flying back and impacting with the stone floor. He lay there, dazed.

Someone moved near, coming to stand beside him. His head exploded when their boot impacted with his skull.

x-x

_Please comment and let me know what you think of this so far, or leave kudos. I love kudos! Thanks!_


	4. Chapter 4

x-x

John struggled to wakefulness, his head an agony. The room, wherever he was, felt small. It was dark. There were either no windows, or it was nighttime.

He heard something scrape across the floor. His heart rate moved from sluggish to jackhammer fast in an instant. Someone was there with him. He tried to sit but fell back, nausea roiling.

The person must have realised that he was awake, because he started speaking. "I'm not sure what do with you." John heard fabric rustling as the man shifted. "I'd wanted keep a few of you for use as bargaining chips, but ending up with only a blind man - probably not worth much to your people."

Now John did manage to sit. He pushed back slightly until his back impacted a damp wall. He leaned against it, feeling woozy.

"I can tell you weren't always blind."

John didn't speak. He recognised the voice now. It was the man from McKay's lab.

The person shifted again, getting closer. John could feel hot breath in his face. "You were a soldier before." It was a statement rather than a question. The man kicked his foot. "Not much of a soldier now, are you?"

There was a huff and the person pushed away. A door opened in a rush of light, then shut, leaving John alone in the dark.

x-x

John paced the length of the room. It was a good twelve strides square and completely lacking in furnishings, and he could move about freely so long as he kept himself away from the hole in one corner of the floor. His nose usually notified him of its presence well before he reached it.

They kept the room dark, and it was quiet. Not entirely lacking in sound, though - there was the occasional rustle as some local creepy crawly made its way along a wall. Other noises, too, which he preferred not to think about. And the smell - that was a bit overpowering. The hole in the corner was there for obvious purposes, and it had been well-used even prior to his time in the cell.

This was his first time in real darkness. It was always light in Atlantis - he just hadn't realised it before now. The lights of the city reflected on the water, even at night, casting their soft glow throughout.

This room was so dark that he couldn't see anything at all. It left him oddly grateful he'd been left with some sight. He couldn't imagine living in complete darkness. He wasn't sure of how he'd deal if he'd been made one of the few blind people who actually saw nothing.

He'd actually been surprised, when he'd first been injured, that he could still see light, even though Carson had described him as "blind". He'd always thought - he supposed he'd assumed - that being blind meant a person saw nothing. But in his case he could see light and dark, even shapes and forms if there was enough contrast. He could actually read a bit if the contrast was high enough, the text large enough, the thing he was reading close to his face, and he tilted his head just so. But he was functionally blind. Not enough vision left to be a soldier. Certainly not enough to be a pilot.

Reaching a wall, he lowered himself to the floor, not caring as the damp seeped through his clothing. The man who'd been in the room when he'd first woken here - that man had never returned. The only person who ever came now was some random flunky who opened the door in a flash of light, shoved food in, and took away the old tray. Otherwise, John spent his time in silence and darkness. It gave him lots of time to think. He'd learnt this was not necessarily a good thing.

"John?"

Oh, crap, John thought, his head snapping up. Here we go again. He started humming, then singing an old lullaby, anything to fill the cell with noise because he was sure he didn't want to hear whatever he was hearing.

He didn't know if these were auditory hallucinations or real, or some sort of blending of dream and reality. He'd been hearing voices calling his name, starting him out of sleep. Shufflings in the dark. They were getting stronger and coming more often. If this were Buffy, he'd worry about vampires and ghosts, but it was not. This was not a T.V. show. This was Antarti...

No, wait. No it wasn't. He rubbed a rough hand across his eyes. Right. Not Earth. Not Atlantis, either. He was...somewhere else.

How long it been? He'd lost track of the days, here in the dark.

He cocked his head. There was something... Right. Crawling to the wall, he let his hand trace the bottom edge until he found the door. Moving two feet to the left, and there - yes. Scratches he'd made in greasy dirt on the floor along the edge of the room, one mark for each day. On hands and knees, with very gentle fingers so as not to wipe them out, he counted. One two three... Good fucking Christ. Twelve. Twelve days he'd been here, alone, the only voice he'd heard his own, the only things he saw when they opened the door once a day to feed him. No wonder he was going a bit nuts.

Or he thought it was twelve days. He actually had no idea of when he'd last added a notch. Was today the thirteenth day? Or even longer? Hell, he wasn't even sure he was counting a "day" right.

No matter, it was the best he had. He made another scrape, then crawled away so he wouldn't disturb his make-shift calendar.

If it really had been thirteen days, that placed it at...October twenty-third. Almost Halloween. He used to love that holiday as a kid. Ghosts and goblins, spooky crap. Monster movies.

"John?"

This kind of spooky, though - spooky of the "imaginary disembodied voice" kind - he could do without.

"John?"

John sat heavily, clenched his hands in fists, and refused to answer.

"John?"

"What?" John finally spat in reply. Of all the voices he had to choose from, his subconscious had to pick Rodney McKay. He was going well and truly nuts. Certifiable.

"Found a way out of here yet?" McKay asked from directly beside him.

"No," John said, drawling out the syllable in that way he knew Rodney hated.

"Why not?"

"I don't even know who these people are -"

Rodney spoke on top of him. "You should really get off your ass and do some -"

"Which part of 'I'm blind and trapped in a locked cell' is confusing to you?" John shouted.

McKay shut up, or disappeared, or whatever at that point. Just as well.

John took a slow, shaky breath. As he exhaled, he purposefully relaxed his shoulders. These hallucinations were freaking him out. He wasn't sure if they were from the sensory deprivation or…

The door creaked open in a flash of light, and he heard a tray being kicked through the opening. The door shut again.

Drugs in the food. God, he was slow. Of course they were drugging his food. Why the hell not? Keep him complacent, unable to find his way out of a paper bag. The voices were probably just an unintended side-effect.

Standing, he grabbed the tray and shoved the food down the hole in the floor, flinging the tray back toward the door. He started pacing. Twelve steps to one wall, then a slow circuit of the room, his fingers tracing the rough, damp stone as he moved. Twelve steps, twelve, twelve. He reached his hands up and could just brush the ceiling with his fingertips. They came away slimy, so he wiped them on his pants.

The food probably was drugged. If he wanted to get out of here, he couldn't eat it.

"Not that getting out of here is really a possibility," said a voice from beside him.

John paused his walk and turned slowly toward the voice.

"You have no idea where you are," McKay who was not-McKay said. "You're locked in a room. You don't know where the gate is. And you're blind."

John could actually see the man in his head, counting each point off on his fingers. "Nice to see you too, McKay."

"Lovely to be here." Rodney sniffed. "Nice place."

"Sorry," John answered, thinking about the smell. "Not much in the way of facilities."

"Suppose not. So, how are you planning to get out?"

John smiled into the darkness. "Aren't you usually the one with the brilliant ideas?"

"Well, you know I'm not really here, right?" The man almost sounded apologetic.

"Yeah," John replied softly. "I know that." Then he forced a hint of joviality into his tone. "You never call me 'John'. Not in real life."

Rodney paused. "I don't?"

John shrugged, sank to the floor and leaned back against the wall. When Rodney settled beside him, he murmured, "Why the hell are you here?"

"Me?" Rodney answered. "I don't know. You're the one who conjured me up."

"I think this is a side effect of the drugs," John said. Pulling his legs up, he draped his arms across his knees and let his chin rest there. "Or I really am going nuts."

"Because I don't call you 'John'?"

"Yeah," John answered vaguely before he snapped to the present and realised just what Rodney had said. "No," he added hastily. "I don't know."

"Maybe you were hoping, if you projected me onto you, you could figure your way out of this?"

John shrugged noncommittally.

"Or maybe you just needed someone to talk to."

"So I picked you?" John asked in surprise, turning to face Rodney.

John could almost hear Rodney's answering shrug.

John decided to risk a question that had been bugging him for a while. "Why were you so concerned in the first place?"

"What?" Rodney answered. "You're the one - "

"No, not now," John said quickly. "Earlier. Back on Atlantis."

"Ah. Right."

When Rodney didn't say anything else, John added, "It seems unlike you."

"Why? 'Cause I'm an uncaring bastard?"

"Honestly?" John gave a twisted smile. "Sometimes, yeah."

"Gee, thanks," Rodney answered, clearly sounding put-out.

John let the silence rest between them.

After a few minutes, Rodney's voice came quietly from beside him. "Maybe I recognised the signs."

"Oh," John said. There was nothing else he could say. Almost numb, he wondered just what signals he'd been sending - letting others know things he didn't even really know himself. And Rodney - God, how had he, of all people, picked up on that? There must have been some time in the man's past when...

"Oh," John said again. Now he got it. Someone Rodney knew had been sending signals. Rodney had missed them. He'd missed them, and... Jesus.

He tilted his head down and rubbed the back of his neck. "Rodney?" He finally said. God, he was tired.

"Hmm?" came the response.

"Thanks."

"Go to sleep,"

John nodded and let his thoughts drift.

x-x


	5. Chapter 5

He must have dozed, because next he knew, he was being pulled to standing. Rodney was gone, and there were men around him. The cell door was open, flooding the place with light.

Stumbling, trying desperately to clear his head, he was propelled down a corridor and into a room. They let him drop to his knees. There were people around him, but he wasn't sure he was really tracking. Then he knew he wasn't, because he heard Elizabeth's voice.

John raised his head slowly, feeling like he was swimming up through molasses. A man stood in front of something bright - the gate, John realised. His dark form was silhouetted by its light.

"We welcomed you," Elizabeth said, the hard edge of her tone blurred by static.

"Yes," the man said in response, and John realised it was their leader, the man he'd spoken with on his first day here.

"You stole our drugs, tried to steal our medical database, and kidnapped one of my people. How should I react to your request for help?"

"We have..." The man shifted awkwardly, although his voice held firm. "...there is a plague on our world. When we were in your city, we obtained two vials of something, an antibiotic, that seems to work. We would like to arrange for a trade - "

Elizabeth cut him off. "You could have _asked_."

"Others who have this level of tech are not so willing to share it." The man straightened, standing tall. "We are used to having to use our might to get what we need."

"That's not how we operate."

The leader grunted. "Perhaps." He hesitated. "We'd once been quite technologically advanced. We were also willing to help people." He waved an arm, taking in his surroundings. "Look where that got us."

"Send him through first," Elizabeth said.

Not answering Elizabeth, the leader turned and stepped to John. Squatting in front of him, blocking out the light behind him, he said, "Guess your people wanted you back after all." The man's voice was hard, but he sounded sincere. "Must be more to you than the blindness."

John wanted to say this wasn't about him, but he was pulled up with a surprisingly gentle hand at his elbow. Before he knew it, he was back on the other side.

The contrast between the dark, dank room where he'd been and the brightness and expanse of Atlantis' gateroom was overwhelming. There were voices all around him: Elizabeth, Radek, Carson, and suddenly Rodney was upon him in a flurry of words and frantic movements. The room was too bright, there were too many people, and it was too loud. Heartbeat filling his ears, he tried not to flinch at the onslaught.

Someone must have noticed something was amiss, because Rodney cut off in mid-sentence.

"How long?" John whispered into the sudden silence, not caring who heard or answered.

"What?" Rodney asked.

"How long was I...gone?"

There was a soft hand on his arm. Elizabeth. "Twenty one days."

He moved his arm out of her grip and stepped slightly away from the group. He supposed he should feel shocked. Instead he closed his eyes, turned his face upwards, and let the light from the windows welcome him home.

x-x

John was alone in the dark of his room, this time by choice rather than self-imposed exile. He'd gone to breakfast with Rodney just today. He still felt as if all eyes were on him, but he was determined to get over it, and Rodney told him he'd received glances, no more. Glances, he could deal.

He rolled onto his stomach. Reaching an arm off the bed, his fingers traced the drawer and he pulled it open. Lifting the gun safe, he could tell the pistol wasn't in it simply from the weight.

They hadn't put it back. He smiled slightly. Probably just as well. After he'd returned to Atlantis, it had taken him a little while to come back to himself. The initial feelings and sensations had been overwhelming, a combination of too many people, too much light, and motion, and sound. Carson had ended up putting him in isolation until he got past the influence of the drugs and the seclusion. Then there had been the sessions with Heightmeyer, and finally the slow influx of visitors - knowing that Carson carefully controlled the flow so that it remained a trickle, rather than a flood. Eventually, there had been the cautious release of him to his quarters. Even now, trying to think back on the path he'd followed since his return - probably best not to try too hard to retrace it.

He let his chin sink to his pillow, keeping his eyes open. Sunlight was streaming through his windows, its effects muted by the texture and color of the glass and his own lost sight. The light was different from when he'd been fully sighted, but still beautiful.

Logically, he thought the capture, feeling helpless like that, should be making him feel more depressed. But it was like it did the opposite. It was almost as if he'd realised life could be so much worse. Hell, he could be dead.

This experience had proven one thing, and one thing only, to him: he really, really didn't want to be dead.

It was just that... He let his eyes sink shut. God, he missed flying. He felt it as a deep ache, like he'd lost a limb or part of his soul, which he supposed he had. He knew he always would miss it. But that didn't necessarily mean his life was over. It couldn't be. He had to... there had to be...be something. It was just a matter of finding it.

x-x

John leaned against McKay's open lab door, playing at the studied nonchalance he normally displayed and knowing he was failing miserably.

It took McKay a minute to notice him there and when he did, he burst forth with a startled, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself."

"Is there something I can -"

Quickly, before he lost his nerve, John said, "I was wondering if I could help you out here." When McKay didn't reply, John shifted awkwardly. "You know, touching devices. Stuff like that."

"What?" McKay said, clearly surprised. "Really?" He took a tentative step toward John.

"Really," John said, his voice coming out less certain than he'd hoped.

"Yeah. Yes," McKay said, sounding more excited as the idea settled. "God, these..." He grabbed John's arm and tugged until he followed. "Here, on the bench, I've been trying to figure out..." McKay stopped and dropped his hand. "You really don't mind?"

"Nah," John said, smiling. "It's cool."

"Great, because..."

John grinned to himself as Rodney rattled on. Even if he was simply a glorified on-off switch for ancient toys, at least he'd be doing something, making a contribution. Until he figured out what was next, perhaps this would be enough.

x-x

_The jumper swooped through the clouds, making a gentle turn in the air before it did a quick pass over Atlantis. John gazed at the blue sky surrounding him and just let the sucker glide, almost whooping at the feeling of freedom that flying brought. It had been too damn long._

_Flight was a magical thing, had always been. The sensation of soaring, of floating, and of being in control of something so beyond control was a feeling unmatched by anything else. It brought him peace, relaxation, and a sense of being close to machine, to nature, and even to God. It was spiritual. He'd missed it._

_He turned the jumper and put the city in his sights. Just one more pass. Surely he had time for one more pass before..._

John was jerked from his dream by the sound of the comm. He rested a weary arm across his eyes, giving himself a moment before he responded to the hail. Finally, dreams of flying already fading, he answered.

x-x

"You wanted to see me, Doc?" John asked, sliding into the seat across from Carson's desk.

"I did indeed," Carson replied. Without preamble, he stated, "I may have found something."

John felt his stomach drop. "What?" was all he could manage.

"I'm not sure..." the doctor replied, although John could hear an undercurrent of excitement in his voice.

John lost the rest in the swirl of his thoughts. What was Carson saying? A cure? His breath came fast in his throat, and his hands gripped the armrests of his chair. That wasn't possible. Carson had said -

"I didn't want to talk to you about it until I'd done some testing of my own." The doctor's chair creaked as he leaned back in it.

"Risks?" John asked, shock flattening his tone.

"Headaches. Fatigue. Blurred vision." At John's raised eyebrow, Carson added, "Ah, yes. Of course. Sorry." He paused. "And it may not work at all - about 60 per cent of cases seem to have been helped, the rest, not at all." The chair creaked again as Carson sat forward. "It takes some time to build up enough of a dosage in your system. You won't notice anything at all at first."

"What do you mean by 'helped'?" John asked, his voice shaking.

Carson dropped his voice. "God willing, there will be some improvement. And if we're very lucky..."

"Lucky?" John murmured, almost too low to hear.

"John..." Carson paused, as if considering how to phrase the rest. "...I don't want you to count on this, lad, because it may not happen." The doctor's tone was tinged with concern.

John finally gained control of himself. In a stronger voice, he asked, "So worst case, I'm where I am now, right?"

"Yes."

"And best case?"

"Best case?" Carson sounded as if he didn't want to continue.

"Yeah, doc," John said firmly.

"You could get your vision back."

"Back?"

"You could fly again."

The mention of flying hit John like a punch to the gut. He'd never thought - God, it wasn't even in the realm of possibility, that there would even be a chance. He let out a slow breath. Actually, he was surprised Carson got it, about the flying. John had never actually mentioned it to him. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone.

Being blind was one thing. It sucked, and he hated it, and he wished it hadn't happened. But not flying again? That was the thing that was killing him, eating away at his soul. He'd do anything – anything at all, for the chance to fly again.

But if Carson understood without even being told, he wondered if his other friends also knew. Maybe, if he was willing to let them in... He took a shaky breath, then let it out slowly. Maybe, even if this didn't work, if he let them in, he could find himself again.

John found himself replying in a rush. "Yeah, Doc. Let's do it."

It was the first hope he'd felt in some time.


	6. Chapter 6

John stood on the small balcony, eyes closed, just enjoying the feel of the sun on his skin, the salt spray hitting his cheeks. The light bleeding through his eyelids filled his world with red, and he turned his face to the sky.

It had been a few weeks since Carson had started him on the treatment. In that time he really hadn't noticed much, if any, difference. Every once in a while there would be something - an area in the upper right corner of his vision sometimes seemed to separate out, but he'd figured that any change he was noticing was more attributable to his own hope than anything medical. The changes he'd noticed seemed illusory: there one moment, gone the next.

That is, until today.

He opened eyes and smiled. And he could see - God, he could see! some of the detail in the spire soaring above him. He let his eyes trace the spire to where it pierced the blue sky expanding above him.

Heart in his throat, hands shaking, he clenched the rail of the balcony and looked down into the water meters below.

He heard someone behind him, but he couldn't stop staring down at the ocean. He could see the movement of the waves. The detail wasn't completely clear - the tears in his eyes were making it hard for him to see, but God, he could see it, the swell and flow as the water stirred below him.

Someone stood beside him at the rail. "Beautiful day," Elizabeth said, her voice going out over the ocean, almost lost in the breeze.

John didn't answer. He couldn't. He was...he was stunned. Frozen. In awe of what he was seeing, what was happening to him.

After a moment, Elizabeth shifted and turned to look at him. "Are you all right?" When he didn't answer, she said, "John?" her tone showing her concern.

Still looking at the sea, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yeah. I'm good."

He felt a gentle hand on his arm. "You sure?"

Now he turned to look at her. With a trembling hand, he touched her shoulder, fingering the deep red of her shirt. Letting his hand drop, he looked directly into her eyes. After a moment, he saw realization there. "Yeah, I'm great," he said with a huge smile. Raising an eyebrow, he added, "Nice color on you."

Then he laughed in joy, eyes to the sky, his darkness gone.


End file.
